The Last Girls (46 page)

BOURBON STREET

The bride wears her ivory linen

going-away dress

in the Ladies.

She says she's never

been in one of these places before.

She thinks it's awful

that Bobby has actually dragged her

into one of these places

on her honeymoon.

I don't know.

I could stay here—

ride that pole, the velvet swing—

or I could go to graduate school

FOLK ART

you're so pretty

they always said

you're so pretty

aren't you lucky

you're so pretty

you're so rich

but I'm such a bitch

deep inside

where I hide

it's a godawful mess

look like I done been hit

with the ugly stick

VESPERS

The statue behind the cathedral

is Christ or somebody

I don't know I'm drunk

with some boy who goes to Tulane

his father is a jeweler

in Indianola, Mississippi

his mother has cancer

Oh Lord

It's always something with these boys

He lays me down

but not to sleep

in the statue's shadow

enormous on the cathedral wall

a giant Christ, a huge whoever

I lie in his arms

on the soft damp holy grass

SALE AT THE HOUSE OF VOODOO

un noir cadeau

pour Marie Laveau

The gift came from her mother.

Born with a veil

across her face,

seventh child of a seventh child

what chance did she have?

always, second sight

always knew too much

little snake wrapped around her leg

for company.

I can cure

high blood, low blood

chills and fever

High John the Conqueror

is my familiar

Gimme all you got:

black candles

beef brains

red hot peppers

(his fingernails, his underwear)

cat bones, ashes

chicken foot, feces

I'll make you a mojo hand

Honey he ain't got a chance

We gonna make him

Dance, dance, dance

But once I said

Mama, I don't want to do it

She said,
Hush your mouth, child

Get to it.

Only thing to it

is do it

The snake grew as she grew.

It killed her, finally.

THE UNDEAD

If they buried you underground

in New Orleans,

you'd float up,

sail down the flooded street

to the Quarter.

So they put you in a concrete bunkbed

in this vast dormitory

of the dead

instead.

(After every funeral

I fuck somebody)

Harriet stirs in her chair and then jumps up, disoriented but calm somehow, and rested. Impossible as it seems, she must have fallen
asleep, at least for a few minutes. Sometimes she sort of blanks out when she's really stressed. She looks at her watch. Nine-forty-five. Thank goodness—at least she's not late. She brushes her teeth and freshens her lipstick in the bathroom mirror, then fluffs up her hair which looks exactly the same when she's done as it did before she started. That's the story of Harriet, isn't it? Stasis. Slice of life. The deep, world-weary voice of Lucian Delgado sounds in her ear: “Every story must contain the possibility of change, my lovelies. If there is no possibility of change, there's no conflict, and if there's no conflict, there's no story.” The story of Harriet is no story at all.

But it's time, isn't it? Isn't it time? In the view from Harriet's stateroom window the river looks busy now, almost congested, with boats and lights and the reflection of lights in the water. She puts Charlie Mahan's letter into her purse. She slips the purse strap over her shoulder. She takes a deep breath and runs her damp hands down her body, over her thighs; she picks up the Chinese box and straightens her shoulders and opens the door and goes into the corridor, sidestepping bags, as she makes her way forward to the Grand Staircase leading up to the Promenade Deck. She nods to several people, shipboard acquaintances on their way down. She nods to Captain John Dulaney who stands on the landing ensconced in a bank of potted ferns: photo opportunity. Everyone is taking advantage of it, queuing up to pose with the captain. Flashbulbs go off like fireworks. “Good evening, sir . . . Good evening, ma'am . . . If you enjoyed your voyage, tell everybody; and if you didn't, just keep your damn mouth shut!” What a character! He winks at Harriet. His eleven-year-old son is dying from cystic fibrosis. Harriet knows this from Pete. The captain never stops smiling.

Finally Harriet slips through the knot of photographers and makes it to the final flight of stairs. She hates all the gaudy flowered carpeting everywhere, it's making her dizzy. She rushes past the Steam-boatique with its huge
LAST CHANCE SALE
banner and greets the Syncopators, all decked out now in flashy Oriental silk saris, headed
back toward the Upper Paddlewheel Lounge where they will perform as Chop Suey Huey and the Won Tons. Melinda and Suzette have pulled their long hair back and wound it into tight knots on top of their heads, anchored by chopsticks poking out in every direction. They look lethal, with bright red lipstick, rouged cheeks, and eyes ringed severely in black.

Harriet pushes the door to the deck. The air itself seems denser now, filled with the smell of oil and the heavy promise of rain later on. It's so humid on deck that by the time Harriet makes it all the way forward and starts climbing the iron stairs, she feels damp all over, as if she's been sprayed by one of those fern misters. She stops for a minute on the Observation Deck to get her breath before heading up the final, smaller flight of stairs to the Sun Deck where they will all be waiting. She hopes. She looks up the stairwell to see stars in the sky and a white blur at the top of the stairs. Her heart stops still. Then she remembers: it's Pete, just Pete, dressed up in his Mark Twain suit for the last night's photo opportunities. He extends his hard square hand which Harriet takes, allowing him to pull her up the few last steps onto the Sun Deck.

“You made it,” he says from behind his moustache. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“Well.” Harriet smiles up at him. “I'm here now.”

He gives her a practiced bow, an old-fashioned, courtly gesture, and steps back. Harriet moves forward to where Courtney and Anna and Catherine and Russell have pulled four deck chairs into a semicircle. She pauses to get another one for herself, but Pete's already there; he picks it up and puts it against the rail for her, facing the others. “Thanks,” she tells him. “Hi,” she says to them.

“Hi yourself,” Courtney says tartly. “Where have you been? We were about to give up on you.”

“Oh, they were taking pictures up on the landing, and I couldn't get past. It always takes longer than you think it will to get anywhere on this boat.”

“That's the damn truth.” Russell nods, sipping a tall mixed drink with a lot of fruit in it, for the vitamins. He wears a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt with huge red tropical flowers on it. The shirt is buttoned up wrong. His hair sticks up in some places and lies flat in others. He needs a shave. But Russell and Catherine are holding hands now, publicly, solidly, their hands clasped on the little glass table between them.

“Is
that
it?” Courtney points to the small black lacquered box which Harriet balances carefully on her knees. Harriet nods. Anna takes a deep breath, shudders, and looks away. Catherine squeezes Russell's hand.

“Let's do it, then,” Courtney says through her teeth.

But a boat's horn sounds over the water from someplace ahead of them and is answered by the
Belle,
several short blasts of the steam whistle right above their heads, it's deafening. Harriet's ears are ringing when it's over.

“For God's sake!” Anna cries. “Can't we do this someplace else? Can't we do it
later?
”

Harriet looks up across their heads to Pete, who shakes his head no. He points to his wrist. “There isn't time,” she says. “We'll be coming into New Orleans soon, and then there'll be too many people around. This is okay, Anna, really. It won't take long, I promise. But I have to read you this letter first.”

“
What
letter?” Courtney asks.

“Charlie Mahan enclosed a letter, addressed to all of us, along with
this
.” Harriet touches the box on her lap, then puts it down on the deck beside her chair and gets Charlie's letter and her reading glasses out of her purse. She's settling back in her chair when the P.A. system crackles alarmingly above their heads and “Bobby's Girl” blares out into the humid air.

“Oh hell!” Anna jumps up in fright, then rearranges herself and settles back down. “This is just impossible.”

“I want to be Bobby's girl” comes across the deck at top volume.

“Hang on there, folks, don't move. Just a minute,” Pete yells, disappearing up the iron ladder to the top level, the Pilot House.

“Who's this, the Chipmunks?” Russell downs his drink.

“What?” Courtney cups her ear with her hand.

“I said, is this the fucking
Chipmunks?
”

“I think it's the Everly Brothers,” Anna calls out, surprising everybody.

First Catherine starts laughing and then Harriet starts laughing too, what else can you do? Harriet thinks she'll never stop laughing. Anna's rocking, she's gone someplace back in her head, but Courtney sits straight and prim in her deck chair, staring ahead. (At least,
she
knows how to act!) Harriet laughs and laughs while “Bobby's Girl” fills the air and a hot little wind lifts her hair off the back of her neck. On shore, across the dark water, oil refineries lace the skies with strings of white lights; it looks like Christmas. Some of them move up and down like carnival rides. It's really very beautiful up here. But it seems shockingly quiet when “Bobby's Girl” cuts off suddenly with a scratchy noise that makes you grit your teeth, like nails on a blackboard.

“Sorry, folks.” Pete drops back down on their deck. “That wasn't supposed to happen, obviously. Just a little cut from the ‘Times of Your Life'—it's this oldies program they keep going up here on the Sun Deck all day long. People seem to like it. Okay, now. You may proceed.” He nods to Harriet across the others' heads.

Harriet rips open the envelope, unfolds the letter, and sits back. “Well, I won't say anything first. I'll just read you this letter, as it is really intended for all of us. Okay. Here goes.” They lean forward in their chairs to catch Harriet's soft voice.

May 5, 1999

My dear Harriet,

First I must offer you and the others my deepest gratitude for undertaking this journey and carrying out our beloved Maggie's final
wish. I hope it has been a pleasant trip for you as well as a duty. And now I must confess that Maggie's request was not stated in our joint will, that document having been drawn up many years ago. No, it is my own idea, and I shall tell you exactly how it came to me. For several months preceding Maggie's death, she had been thinking of her college years, especially the trip down the Mississippi River. She spoke of the trip, and of you, many times, regretting that she had never been one to attend reunions or “keep in touch,” at least not in close touch, taken up as she has always been with the demands produced by our family and the farm. At this point I made a suggestion. Why not call up “the girls,” I said, and suggest a return voyage down the river on one of those steamboats? She seized upon my idea with alacrity, planning to contact you all after Christmas. She was, I might say, thrilled by this prospect. The intervening tragedy put a stop to the plan, of course, and yet I could not get her excitement over it out of my mind. I resolved to help her make the trip, if at all possible. Hence my request to you, a request that I hope you do not now consider dishonest in light of these disclosures.

Maggie's college years were precious to her despite some times of unhappiness and those lifelong difficulties that you are aware of. In fact, as the intervening years passed, her time at Mary Scott seemed to become ever more dear to her. In a reflective moment last fall, she told me that she “just felt so
alive
then.” I was struck by this remark at the time, for I believed her life here at El Destino to be filled almost to bursting with passionate life: our five children (and now two grandchildren); our farm, where she has always been my “right-hand man”; and her active role in our little community, where she was known and revered by all. I realized even at the time that she meant, then, something else; and after thinking about this matter a great deal, as you must imagine I have done, I believe this memory of “aliveness” derived not only from the natural exuberance of youth—and oh, yes, she
was
exuberant, wasn't she? So filled with “passionate intensity,” to borrow
a line from W. B. Yeats whose volume of
Collected Poems
lies even now in its accustomed place on her bedside table—but also from the warm and true friendships she formed at Mary Scott with the other girls, and especially with
you,
Harriet.